


Entwined

by KieraVenic



Series: The Halla and the Crow [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Knitting, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:38:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KieraVenic/pseuds/KieraVenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a way to focus and a way to forget. An inane little habit that had grown over the years until it had become an intricate part of their lives. Still, it warmed Zevran to see the way such a useless talent lit up his lover’s eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entwined

**Author's Note:**

> This little bunny came about thanks to the wonder, becausedragonage. Her sketch of Zevran knitting and then the redo she did today, spawned the bunny that turned into this short story. :D This is both inspired by her and then in turn dedicated to her for her lovely work for Zevran week.

The quiet click of needles had become a normal part of camp life. Initially, the repetitive ticking had been a distraction for some, an irritation for others. Now there were nights that Ellion Mahariel had come to find he simply could not fall to sleep without it.

Upon returning to camp from scouting, the familiar sound welcomed him, and he could not help but smile. Wynne was at it again. When asked, she had smiled and said she found the hobby a pleasant distraction from life’s troubles. It had become a meditative practice. The fact that they got the periodic pair of socks out of it, and Alistair a sweater, was a pleasant side benefit. Even Morrigan could not bring herself to sneer at the old woman when presented with a pair of socks after her last had become too full of holes to be worth wearing.

What Ellion did not expect, was that Wynne might ever gain a student. If anyone joined the elder mage, he had figured it would be Leliana. More than once she had cornered them to excitedly express her adoration for fashion, most particularly shoes.

However, at the moment the Bard was happily harassing Morrigan with all the things she would love to dress the Witch in.

Approaching the pair, the Warden could not help but smile. “Zevran… Are you learning to knit? Or this simply another talent you failed to tell us about?”

“Alas, it is one that I failed to acquire. Antiva is a warm place and I’m afraid the Crows do not have much use for sweaters.”

With a chuckle, Ellion eased himself to the earth, joining them at the campfire. “No? You mean the Crows do not indulge in knitting circles to pass the time between jobs?”

The Antivan shook his head in mock woe. “Sadly not. But they also did not have such a lovely lady to be their teacher. They might have reconsidered if that were the case.”

“And here I thought agreeing to teach you would provide a distraction from your insufferable flirting.” Despite the words, there was little heat to her voice. In a way she appeared almost pleased at Zevran’s presence as she reached over and stopped him, gently correcting the placement of his needles.

“Come, my dear lady, I would not want you to feel as though I had forgotten you. I do not wish for you to become jealous of all the attention I give the Warden.”

A none so subtle dig. So much for being pleased. Wynne’s lips pursed even as Ellion ducked his head in discomfort. There were moments when Ellion seriously regretted telling Zevran about when Wynne had approached the Dalish on her disapproval about their relationship.

“Watch it,” the woman warned, “or I can show you what else can be done with these needles.”

“Knitting needles as weapons, an intriguing idea. I knew there was a reason I found you so lovely.”

With a sound of disgust, the mage tossed up her hands. “I give up. You enjoy him.” Gathering up her yarn, Wynne left with the shake of her head.

“I’m sure he will,” Zevran chirped after her.

Ellion unfolded his legs to kick at the other rogue. “Zevran… Stop antagonizing her.” But he could not hide the fact that his smile had returned, growing into a grin. It was honestly warming that the other Elf had risen to defend what they were doing, in his own way.

And yet, despite their periodic clashes, the pair had continued their little sessions. Wynne would tolerate the Antivan’s teasing and in time would return it with her own. The first time she had made a lewd barb back at the rogue, Alistair had choked on his dinner. Zevran had cheered and called for celebration at finally wearing down the elder woman.

Alas, they were out of any source of alcohol besides Oghren and no one dared touch what the Dwarf had been more than willing to share.

Most curious, were the times that Ellion had found Zevran knitting alone. They were some of the few times the assassin held a straight face amongst the others. Sometimes Ellion wondered if he simply forgot he was in camp, so focused on his work as he was.

Catching him at it one time, frowning down at the yarn as he worked, Ellion impulsively joined him, easing down onto the log Zevran had perched on. The other did not look up.

“Did the yarn make a rude comment about your appearance? Do I need to threaten someone it loves?” the blonde Warden teased.

A twitch of the lips. A good sign. Not a long lasting one, however. The Antivan’s face lapsed back into seriousness, unblinking. Peculiar. Zevran had a worrying habit of being rather flippant about his troubles. To see him so serious now was troubling.

Ellion resisted the urge to rest his chin on Zevran’s shoulder, or slip his arm about the other’s waist. The first time he had found Zevran sitting so pensively, he had quickly, and awkwardly, learned that the rogue that normally adored physical contact, hated to be touched when he had fallen into one of his darker moods. Ellion did not make the same mistake a second time.

So, instead, he sat quietly and watched the assassin work. Given time the other would open up if he so desired. If not? Well… He would know at least that he was not alone.

“Do the Dalish knit?”

Ellion blinked stupidly. “Do we knit?”

The other hummed in affirmation. When he had hoped that the other would speak, this was not exactly what Ellion had had in mind.

“On occasion, but it is not something we really practice. Wool is novelty for us, really. As we never stay in one place for long we do not raise herds of sheep like the Humans. Perhaps clans that settle might acquire some, or those that have more frequent contact with Humans might trade often for it, but we stayed away from them when possible.”

Seconds passed, marked by the click of smoothly polished wooden needles. “What did you do then?”

Bow calloused fingers toyed with the sleeve of his shirt that peeked out from beneath his leather armor before the start of his bracers. “Our gatherers would keep their eyes out for the fibrous plants we harvested to create string. They not only gathered food, but herbs for spices and medicine, plants for dyes and oils, and other materials for crafting and spinning. We had two women that served as our seamstresses, or so the Humans call them. They had little wheels they could fold up and unfold to create string and small looms to make bolts of cloth.

“It was a slow process and often we would still need to trade for cloth when gathering was a struggle. Cloth was a precious commodity for us. Everyone learned to sew. Clothing was patched whenever possible or scrapped for cloth to make something new if it was unsalvageable.”

Another hum. It seemed getting out the rogue’s troubles would be more difficult than he initially assumed. Ellion drew up his legs, chin on his knees and fingers toying with the fraying fabric of his toeless shoes; an article of clothing that Alistair still could not figure out the point of.

After a time he tipped his head towards the yarn that was slowly coming together into… something.

“What are you making?”

The click needles paused and Zevran studied his work, holding it up. From what Ellion could see it was simply a tube; neither large enough to be the body of a sweater nor narrow enough to be a sleeve. Certainly it was far too long to be any sort of sock and he doubted anyone would dare make knitted pants.

“You made a… tube?”

“I prefer to call it a sweater for snakes.”

The archer chuckled. “That is certainly a large snake.”

“I’ve seen bigger.” At last, a smile followed by a wink.

He never did find out what had been troubling Zevran that day, but he had sat and watched the other Elf’s pointless knitting and in time, Zevran had returned to himself.

It was not until after the Blight was at last over that he had finally managed to weasel out of Zevran why the other would sometime spend hours curled on a couch in Amaranthine and knit. At least now the other had graduated from useless tubes that he would unravel and reknit before unraveling again onto scarves.

Presented with his twelfth scarf, Ellion glanced up at his lover.

“Not that I do not enjoy the scarf, but dare I ask why I now have twelve? You never did tell me those years ago why you took up the habit of knitting.”

Zevran stared at the yarn in Ellion’s hand and reached out to finger the hanging tassels, the newest addition to his skills. Pensively, he at last explained, “It helps me.”

With silent inquiry, Ellion tilted his head. It was a moment before the other went on.

“You have had moments where there is simply too much to think on, no? When your thoughts run in circles and trip on themselves in tangled messes?”

Humorlessly, Ellion’s lip quirked. More often than he could count. There were many days when he wondered what Alistair had been thinking when he made Ellion Warden Commander of Amaranthine. The Elf had no idea what he was doing and too many decisions were made with only half a clue of what he was really doing.

“I can say I recognize that feeling rather intimately, yes.”

“An intimacy that we share, it seems. I had once asked the lovely Wynne why she spent so much time knitting. Why pick up the habit when the Circle would provide her with everything she needed to live? I think the poor woman half suspected that I was baiting her.”

The words were said with a smile, one touched with a little sadness at the old memories of days gone.

“I wonder why she would ever think such a thing,” Ellion teased, hoping to brighten the shadow that had fallen over his lover’s eyes.

“Me, tease? Perish the thought. But, when she convinced herself I was not being incorrigible, she told me she took up the habit to clear her mind.”

Levity was short lived. Awkwardness hung between them. Even after all this time, Ellion knew it was still hard sometimes for Zevran to drop his jovial mask and bare his more personal and serious side. It was difficult at times for the Antivan to find the words.

“At the time, there were many things that required thinking over. Crows, Darkspawn, Wardens that were equal parts handsome and beautiful. Let us say that I decided to see what Wynne’s fuss with knitting was about. She was not wrong. The task is mindless, repetitive. The click of needles was meditative, in a manner of speaking.”

The tassel under his current attention slipped free. Without a word, Ellion flipped the fabric behind his head and wrapped it around his neck.

“It helps you to think.”

“Yes and no. It clears my mind so that I can focus and, at times, stop thinking all together. It just so happens that I figured I would make use of the silly habit after all this time.”

Contented, Ellion raised his shoulders, bowing his head to burrow his nose into the soft wool. “Warm.”

Zevran snorted, giving the end of the scarf a tug. “I thought you would appreciate it. You have a tendency to whine about the cold.”

“Do not,” the Warden grumped.

But from then on it was not uncommon, when Ellion found his thoughts overwhelmed, to find the Warden napping in the Antivan’s lap, leaning against the couch, or acting as a back rest for Zevran as he knitted. Together, the pair took solace in the simplicity.

 

Winter had snuck in early this year. The leaves had not changed color for long before the first snow had fallen. Not that Zevran particularly minded. There had been a lot on his mind of late and the cold weather gave him the excuse. Either way, he needed to practice a new idea of his.

A number of false starts, late nights, and do overs had given Zevran the time he needed to think; or perhaps not to think. Dwelling seemed to be his biggest trouble of late.

Newest work in hand, he smiled as he strode down the hall, wondering how much the Crows would hate his newest hobby if they realized how much time he spent thinking of his “troubles” with them and working out solutions over a ball of yarn and a pair of needles. Not that they were the only source of the frequent fuzzy meditations, simply the most common.

He did not bother to knock on the heavy wooden door. The creaking hinges drew up a pair of green eyes from a pile of paper work. When they alighted on the scarf in hand, they brightened with laughter.

“Another? Dare I ask what is on your mind this time?”

“Nothing much, simply pondering on how to keep Oghren from finding my stash of rare Antivan brandies.” A lie. One he hoped would not be sensed under the gleam of his smile. What he did not say was that he had noticed the increase in his love’s nightmares; their frequency and intensity rising in a worrying rate. He had gone through many a hank of yarn troubling over what that meant and what he would do should the worst come to pass soon.

Perhaps another reason for his newest acquired knitting skill. The more complicated the work the less wiggle room he had to worry himself sick.

“No doubt,” Ellion replied. The knowing tease said he knew otherwise, but the issue was never pressed. The shorter Elf rose from his desk, knees cracking.

The scarf was offered and accepted gladly. With a grin, Ellion turned the fabric over in his hands. “Patterns now? This is new.” Dark emerald yarn was smattered with pale white shapes. A thumb brushed over one and the Warden laughed. “Are these halla?”

It was perhaps a miracle that the other could even work out what they were. Zevran was of a mind that they looked like sideways lopsided trees, but it was encouraging that his love had noticed immediately. That may well have had to do with the Dalish Elf’s adoration and obsession with the creatures.

“An attempt at them, yes. I figured I might as well start learning to do things besides stripes and plain colors.”

The deceptive casualness of his shrug was seen through. Leaning in, Ellion nudged their noses together in a familiar display of affection between them. “Well I adore it. Thank you.”

Scarf in hand, Ellion started towards the small side room where he changed and stored his clothing. Not far behind, Zevran followed, leaning against the frame as Ellion stepped inside and he watched as the scarf was neatly folded and added to many others. ‘Many’ did not do the Warden’s collection justice.

An entire bookshelf had been moved in and dedicated to the mass. Nathaniel had wondered at it, but Ellion had been amused as the pair of them had carted the wooden furniture upstairs. Over the years it had grown until, in all likelihood, Ellion had enough scarves to cover every day of the winter season. Still, he never failed to smile as each was presented.

Reverently, Ellion brushed his fingers down the neat stacks of wool and Zevran felt a bit foolish. He supposed it was silly, making so many of the damn things. There was nearly no way for Ellion to wear them all, and yet, when the weather turned cold, without fail the Dalish happily dug into the collection.

Truly, the Antivan found it adorable the way Ellion would mull over which to wear for the day’s tasks. Often Zevran would find him wearing them even inside when the keep was cold. Cool spring days and fall evenings found Ellion at his desk, scarf wrapped around his neck and nose burrowed into the folds. In the morning his lover would grin sleepily and ask which Zevran thought he should wear.

It was a bit of a surprise how touched Zevran felt by the simple pleasure his lover got from such an inane habit of his.

Perhaps that, more than anything, had spurred him to start learning to make patterns. Ever again he was looking for ways to out do the last scarf to see the way his lover’s face would light up. The Warden Commander’s growing scarf collection had become a running joke around Amaranthine as the other Wardens had lost tally of them. Bets would be taken up in the winter on which one would be worn that day.

Staring at them, where they were wedged into the shelves, ready to start spilling over, Ellion’s expression softened. “Almost too many to wear now. I may have to start giving some out to the other Wardens or the poor.”

Straightening up from the door, Zevran went to Ellion’s side. “The poor, hm?”

Tentative, Ellion watched him. “Would you mind? If in time I started to give them to others?”

His hesitation faded as the back of his head was cupped, Zevran’s fingers tangling into his blonde hair, drawing him into a kiss. Teeth nipped at his lower lip. “I would not mind if you did that now. I am rather fond of the idea.”

“It looks like you’ll be making scarves for years, yet.”

Zevran slipped down the other’s collar, pressing a kiss to blight darkened veins that Ellion thought he had so cleverly hidden. Sadly, Zevran smiled against the warm skin the pulsed, steady with the beat of a heart. “I may yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a happy and silly story… annnd it turned into this. D: Dang it! Why does it always get angsty? Blarg. Oh well. Was nice to write an Ellion that was happy for once and not one that was being angry or depressed. Also, writing serious Zevran is hard. I’m worried he is not in character. Gah.


End file.
